


in thrall

by kalypsobean



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Mind Manipulation, Vampire Turning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-02 05:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18805075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean





	in thrall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [liliaeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liliaeth/gifts).



There had been a strange kind of peace in Purgatory; he'd noticed it in the moments when he was still, barely breathing, centred, alert. It was a lack of something, a something he hadn't noticed was there until it was gone and his mind was truly his own.

He has not felt that since coming back topside, but he hasn't looked for it here where being less visible comes from constant motion and the thirst is far harder to properly control, where being still is to invite being seen, especially as his diet transitions from creature to animal, dulling his instincts just enough to be noticed.

 

He doesn't know at what point he became weak, susceptible; the headache came in early and he would never known if it was the hunger or the pull until the words started to come with it.

_Bring Dean Winchester to me._

It's a relief when Dean doesn't come, but one that is short-lived, because the pressure grows until it sits behind his eyes, robs him of sleep, and any chance of capturing that stillness he used to rely on. It's an Alpha he doesn't know, and the words that come are tainted with magic that itches and slides through his veins until, sometimes, he's waking up with no idea where he's been or what he's eaten, the taste of human lingering and the voice louder, the magic stronger.

 

In between the gaps he's lost his car and then his keys, so the Impala is a welcome sight. The dread is easily dismissed by the vague undercurrent of certainty that Dean can fix this; Dean can get the voice out of his head and his mind can be quiet and his own again, the pain will stop and he and Dean can hunt just like they used to, until he can settle back in his own skin and feel right again without the edginess...

He's hyperaware of Dean, asleep in yet another motel room, breathing evenly through sleep and yet somehow worn thin, his blood thin and faint, as if his pulse was suppressed purely through exhaustion. The smell is ... the smell. He's scenting Dean and then he's inside, the window shattered behind him and his wrist bleeding, his cheek bleeding, and Dean is choking on it, his eyes open and his heart suddenly alive and loud and so close that Benny can feel it in his chest, beating...

and Dean's lips are red and his eyes are hard, his hands are patting the sheet and the pillow instead of trying to push Benny away, and he's out of time.

_Bring Dean Winchester to me._

Dean stops drinking, stops breathing, and Benny feels like it's the safest choice. He pauses a beat, two beats, just long enough to be sure Dean is unconscious, not faking, not waiting; he hears voices, human ones, and he's gone before they can see him.

Even carrying Dean and the sting of glass in his skin from a second trip through the window, he makes good time; he slips unchallenged into the compound in that greyish-light dawn before the sun is high enough to really bother him. The soft incandescent light is diffuse enough to relieve the pain, in part, and even Dean's forehead seems to clear. Still, he searches out a lower level, away from the sounds of people, and slips into the first darkened room that he senses as empty, and closes the door behind them. 

_You're safe here._

He sleeps.

 

He wakes.

It's a slow awakening, a peaceful kind, the kind that comes after a restful sleep that one isn't quite ready to leave, when the first tendrils of awareness are foggy, when sleep is still enticing, a haven that remains only an inch away, ready to be seized. It's been so long since he woke up with someone, warm, sated and languid; it's a thing to hold on to, to treasure and extend, as he gradually becomes aware of the lack of pain, of the smell of stale blood, of the weakened, sweat-soaked man beside him.

Dean is curled away from him, keening unholy whimpers that reverberate and echo as if sounding within what's left of Benny's soul itself and rousing him to full wakefulness. The warmth is that of a fever, though electric against his skin as if that of desire. For a moment, he can't quite work out the scent; it's Dean and not-Dean, familiar and his, acrid and sweet and not at all enticing, though he can just see where blood is drying, still spreading on Dean's shirt and he should want that, be driven mad by it. But Dean won't let him touch it, instead scooting away and holding the wound as if that would make it stop, a trail left in his wake that is entirely uninteresting but for the need to console Dean, to make him whole and strong. The distance now between them, though, means he can't even see the damage; Dean is wholly in the shadows now, avoidant of even the small stream of light that peeked around the door and danced lightly over Benny's own skin, healed of scratches and marks.

 

It's then he understands.

"I can fix this, brother," he says, and follows his nose. Dean falls silent when he opens the door, the light too bright, the sounds too loud, and Benny lays his jacket over the gap beneath it when he's done, returning the room to a darkness that his eyes can adjust to. He can see it soon enough; the twitches and ripples of starving muscle, the wild disorientation and fear in Dean's unfocused, darting eyes, the pointed teeth grazing dry lips. 

There's only one way Benny knows to stop this; to give Dean the same kind of calm he woke with, and it had been so close, just across the hall, as if he'd already known. The bags are labelled by hand, dated and named; all days old, but Dean won't yet know the difference, know that it's a pale shadow of the iron-rich spice that flows easily once the skin is broken, carrying just a slight edge of salt. 

"Trust me," he says, but Dean won't drink from the line, either too far gone to understand anything that has no heartbeat, to know to suck instead of waiting for the heart to push the blood into his mouth, willingly sacrificing its own supply, or not far gone enough to overcome being unwilling to feed at all.

"Trust me, brother," he says, as Dean falls limp, the human in him exhausted and swiftly receding. He has settle back on the floor and lean on the wall so that he can pull Dean into his lap and still be able to hold the bag up high enough, but he manages, eliciting only a whimper from Dean when he touches the cuts, brushing away bits of glass that somehow survived the journey. Dean's head rests on his shoulder and his eyes close, and Benny puts the line in his own mouth. It's still hard not to swallow, but he bends his neck and brings his mouth to Dean's, trusting that he'll remember this, if nothing else, and when Dean opens his mouth, he lets the blood flow, until the tremors stop and the wounds start to close.

_Thank you_ , he hears, feels, but he can't place it; and he sleeps again, with Dean in his arms.


End file.
